


An Afternoon of Laughing at Ourselves

by elle_stone



Series: Tumblr Requests [8]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 08:45:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12207789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: Bellamy ran for student council last year with big plans: reform the student dress code; confront the excessive power of the despotic PTA; lobby for edits to the student handbook. And at first, he was set to achieve it all. A rush of new-semester ambition carried him through a few major presidential accomplishments, and buoyed him with optimism for the rest of the year.By the time winter fell away into spring, though, no one cared about any of those old promises anymore. No one cared about anything except prom, and fundraising for prom.





	An Afternoon of Laughing at Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "“Come over here and make me," requested by loreley02 on tumblr.
> 
> The title is from "An Afternoon Laughing" by Saves the Day.

How did it come to this? 

Bellamy ran for student council last year with big plans: reform the student dress code; confront the excessive power of the despotic PTA; lobby for edits to the student handbook. And at first, he was set to achieve it all. A rush of new-semester ambition carried him through a few major presidential accomplishments, and buoyed him with optimism for the rest of the year.

By the time winter fell away into spring, though, no one cared about any of those old promises anymore. No one cared about anything except prom, and fundraising for prom.

So: a forty-five-minute debate on the merits of bake sales versus car washes.

Worse: car washes won. 

Now he's here, in the school parking lot on a Saturday morning that started out blissful-spring-warm and is now inching toward surprising-summer-hot, begging for dollars in exchange for splashing water and soap on unsuspecting vehicles, all to pay for a dance he might not even attend. He'd be miserable about it, if there weren't something satisfying in physical labor. Also if the other volunteers weren't so excited, almost giddy. Some of them, he’s sure, are having more fun now than they will at the dance itself, where they’ll be stuck wearing uncomfortable shoes and ties, trying their hardest to live up to all the expectations of that Big High School Day. (It's no secret he finds the whole thing a bit silly.) Today, though, someone's brought over a stereo with big, old-school speakers and set it to blast pop songs that would probably be unbearable in any other context, and groups and duos have started dancing in between customers, or shimmying and swaying as they soap up hoods or wipe windows clean. Bellamy doesn't get into the whole dancing thing himself. But he does appreciate it, in his own way.

In particular, he appreciates Clarke. Clarke Griffin: Junior class rep. His rival, sometimes, challenging him, pushing back on his ideas in that annoying, tight-lipped, crossed-arms, straight-backed way, always making him fight to defend every opinion, to make every idea better—and at other times, and unexpectedly, his closest ally. He wondered at first if she was out to topple him from power. Then he realized that she just cared, deeply and unironically, about all this high school stuff, as much as he does, and more than just about anyone else.

Clarke, he's learned, has Spirit, of the capital-letter variety. He's out to make things at this school better while he can, for whoever he can. Clarke, on the other hand, just deeply, unabashedly _cares_ about Arkadia High. She wants an end to arbitrary dress code enforcement, yes—but she also wants to beat Polis High at the Big Game, she'll pull out all the stops when it comes to fundraisers, and she has a lot of opinions about prom. Like, _a lot_. Like she's probably been planning it in her head all year. She has thoughts on the venue (not the same place as last year, it was way too dark), the decorations (nothing gaudy!), the DJ (she knows a guy, apparently), the theme (Under the Stars, or maybe something to do with space). She had an opinion about the bake sale, too (strongly against), which is a large part of why Bellamy is washing the windows of a dark blue sedan right now, while soap drips down onto his shoes.

Clarke is working away at the hood, beaming brighter than Bellamy has ever seen her. She's bobbing her head a little to the music and she looks, he can't help thinking…kinda... _cute_. Really cute. In her old, faded over-sized t-shirt and her cutoff shorts and her blue sandals, her hair starting to come out of the messy bun she's pulled it back in—

She looks carefree. That's it. At school and in council meetings, she tends toward the serious, animated sometimes by a particularly sudden or brilliant idea, but mostly focused, almost solemn in her concentration. This bright and bubbly side of her is weirdly endearing. It's also, Bellamy finds, oddly...engrossing.

That is, when she leans all the way forward on her toes, one foot kicking off the ground and about a mile of bare leg showing, he finds himself staring. Downright googly-eyed staring. He didn't mean to, but that doesn't make him feel any better about ogling, so he shakes his head and clears his throat and takes a step back. Drops his sponge in the closest bucket of water and soap. Then walks around to see if Monty needs any help with the rear window and to pretend that he wasn't being as obvious as he (maybe) (definitely) was.

Monty lets him take over the back half of the car while he takes a break. To tag him in, he slaps the sponge he was using right against Bellamy's chest, leaving a soapy rectangle right between his lungs, which—is fine, really, it's not like he's wearing his _best_ ratty t-shirt or anything. But maybe it was _a little_ uncalled for. He's brushing stray soap bubbles from over his heart when a shout, just off to his left, catches his ear.

"Hey Blake!"

Clarke Griffin is standing not ten feet away, aiming a hose at him as if it were the deadliest of weapons.

He stops mid-motion and just stares. His first thought is that he must have been even less discreet, before, than he'd thought. His second is that she looks like she's biting down hard to keep back her giggles, so even if this is revenge, of a sort, she probably wasn't really that mad.

His third is that he does not want a blast of cold water in the chest.

He puts his hands up slowly, palms out, and takes a half-step back. Plays along. "Okay, Griffin. No need to go crazy here. Put down the hose and no one gets hurt."

She shakes her head. "No. You're going to have to come over here and make me."

He's smiling now himself, or threatening to, holding back with difficulty the expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. He raises his hands higher. She takes another step forward. He could try to run but then she'd spray him for sure, but if he rushes toward her, maybe he can catch her by surprise...

It's a foolish calculus perhaps, but he doesn't let himself overthink. He half-turns, just for a second, trying to fool her, then abruptly changes course and runs straight ahead. But before he can grab the hose from her hands, she's pulled the trigger, and everything dissolves into a confusion of water and laughter and hopelessly entangled limbs.

When the scuffle finally ends, and he’s able to catch his breath and take his bearings, the hose is on the ground, they’re both soaked from head-to-toe and down to the bone, and he’s got Clarke pressed up against the side of the car, his arms to either side of her, loosely caging her in. He’s staring at a trail of water droplets clinging to her collarbone. When he flicks his gaze up again, he sees that she’s staring at his mouth.

Her hands fist in his shirt, just above his hips, and his stomach muscles tighten and he thinks, _she’s bold_.

“Hey Bellamy,” she smiles. “You should ask me to prom.”

For a second, he truly thought she was going to say _you should kiss me_.

But this is all right too. Even though prom is an over-inflated tradition that costs too much money and carries too many expectations, and before this moment he’d been planning on ditching, student council president or no. Still somehow he doesn’t think he’ll mind the cheesy decorations (even with Clarke’s influence, they’ll probably end up a little bit cheesy) or the dance music, or the dress shoes, if he can show up with her as his date.

He smirks, lean in a little closer. “Why don’t _you_ ask _me_?”

She stares him down, considering. A long moment, the rest of the world fading; he’s tracing the contour of her smile with his eyes, and he already knows. She will.

And she does.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [tumblr](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
